


The Beast You Made Of Me

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Hell Is Awful, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not Involving Crowley or Aziraphale, Orgies, Protective Aziraphale, Rough Sex, Sex Work, unpleasant sex, washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: There are only so many times you can creatively find your way around Hell's most unpleasant assignments, before you have to show up and do the work.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 574





	The Beast You Made Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my challenge to write some things under 1000 words last week. This one is a little bit darker than the ones that I've already posted.

There are only so many times you can creatively find your way around Hell's most unpleasant assignments, before you have to show up and do the work.

Crowley has been doing the work all night, and he's officially had enough. 

He'd been told to attend a high profile orgy, to be seen, to be _available_ , and now he wants to find himself a small, dark room and sleep for a week. He can't risk using too much of his own occult power. Because Rome is currently full of bloody angels - though not, as far as he's seen, the only one he's willing to spend time with. 

Crowley couldn't even name the last person who'd fucked him -

He'd rolled over, exhausted and sore, to find another cup of wine for his desperately parched throat. Someone had pressed into his back, the rigid line of a cock presented between his thighs. Crowley had grunted annoyance, but hadn't protested. The nameless man had spread his buttocks and speared into his wet, bruised arsehole. It had been unpleasantly rough, but thankfully brief. The man hadn't bothered to pull out before he climaxed, had left the thick pulses of his come where a count of others had before him.

Crowley had dragged himself upright afterwards, too disgusted to stay, he'd pulled his way back into his robe, feeling the messy spill of semen down the back and the inside of his thighs.

The torches had all burnt low, but he could still see the bodies sprawled together, some still moving, but most of them quietly still, in either sleep or a drunken stupor. Though that hadn't seem to matter to those still slipping from partner to partner, uncaring if the legs they spread belonged to a conscious participant. 

With any luck, no one sees Crowley leave the villa. Hell had gotten all it was going to get from him tonight.

The streets are dark, but he doesn't need a light, and he reaches his rooms without being stopped by any guards, which he's grateful for. He's in no mood to be harassed, or offered money for services, and the next person to put their hands on him will be set on fire, threat of angels be damned.

The thought of cleaning up without a miracle leaves him hissing utter misery, but there's enough water to fill one of the large basins, and he has enough natural hellish affect to heat it with a drag of fingers.

He pulls his robe over his head, and drops it on the bed, soaks a cloth in the water and lifts it to the long slope of his throat. The dried streaks of come on the skin are reluctant to be cleaned, and his shaking hands don't help. His body is worn out, muscles sore and ill-used, there's a bruised ache in his gut, and a burning sting in the overstretched rim of his arse. He'll heal eventually without a miracle, not as fast as he'd like, but a damn sight faster than a human -

The door of his room creaks abruptly inwards and he stiffens, ready to defend himself if necessary.

"Oh, good Heavens." Aziraphale hurriedly pushes the door shut behind himself.

Crowley realises abruptly that he's naked, that he'd flung his robe over towards the bed. He thinks about retrieving it.

There's a moment of tense silence.

"Here, let me help." Aziraphale says eventually, moving forward on silent feet.

The thought of the angel touching him now, when he's bruised and bitten, filthy with sweat and come, is obscene. Crowley holds onto the cloth when warm fingers close on it.

"Really, Crowley, it's alright." Aziraphale says it like he knows where Crowley's been, knows what he's done. The angel takes the cloth from him, lowers it to the basin and soaks it, wrings it out while Crowley watches.

He can't -

Aziraphale runs the warm cloth across his chest, where the vivid curves of human teeth-marks are already bruising, where lines and spatters of come have dried on the skin. There's a frown on his face, but no judgment, just a quiet sort of determination.

"Aziraphale -" 

"Unpleasant fellow, the general," Aziraphale says, as he wipes him clean. Which confirms the angel knows where he's been. That maybe he'd even been waiting for Crowley to leave the villa. 

He grunts agreement, rather than risk speaking.

"I know we're on necessary miracles only right now." _I was worried about you_ , Aziraphale doesn't say.

The warm cloth is rinsed and squeezed again. Crowley lets the angel see to the length of his hair, where it's dried stiff and disgusting. His heart is pounding, insides strangely raw, he's not sure whether to be impossibly touched, or humiliated. Both of them churning inside him with every pass of the cloth. He wants to tell the angel that no matter how hard he tries, Crowley will never be clean.

But the angel washes him anyway, his body swaying gently under every drag and smooth of wet linen, waiting patiently while Aziraphale rinses and returns. His arms are lifted, and carefully cleaned, until Crowley's skin is warm and wet.

Aziraphale moves to his stomach, waist and hips, where fingers had gripped him, moved his body, over and over. The cloth is soaked and then wrung, comes back hot, it pulls over Crowley's neck and back, the faint curve where his buttocks start. Crowley gives a slow, unhappy hiss when Aziraphale gently encourages his legs apart. 

Why is he letting -

Aziraphale shouldn't have to -

Crowley shivers while the cloth cleans his messy thighs, his genitals - is rinsed again to carefully wash the swollen, sensitive sting of his anus. It's uncomfortable, it's humiliating, it's...so perfect it hurts.

"Aziraphale -" his voice sounds thin and faraway. He feels naked and unravelled, a breath away from some emotion he can't name.

The angel pushes wet hair out of Crowley's face, smiles gently and drops the cloth in the basin.

"There you are," Aziraphale says simply.


End file.
